Andre Breton

Postman Cheval

We are the birds always charmed by you from the top of these belvederes And that each night form a blossoming branch between your shoulders and the arms of your well beloved wheelbarrow Which we tear out swifter than sparks at your wrist We are the sighs of the glass statue that raises itself on its elbow when man sleepsAnd shining holes appear in his bedHoles through which stags with coral antlers can be seen in a glade And naked women at the bottom of a mine You remembered then you got up you got out of the train Without glancing at the locomotive attacked by immense barometric rootsComplaining about its murdered boilers in the virgin forest Its funnels smoking jacinths and moulting blue snakes Then we went on, plants subject to metamorphosis Each night making signs that man may understand While his house collapses and he stands amazed before the singular packing-casesSought after by his bed with the corridor and the staircase The staircase goes on without endIt leads to a millstone door it enlarges suddenly in a public square It is made of the backs of swans with a spreading wing for banisters It turns inside out as though it were going to bite itself But no, it is content at the sound of our feet to open all its steps like drawers Drawers of bread drawers of wine drawers of soap drawers of ice drawers of stairsDrawers of flesh with handsfull of hair Without turning round you seized the trowel with which breasts are madeWe smiled at you you held us round the waistAnd we took the positions of your pleasureMotionless under our lids for ever as woman delights to see manAfter having made love.